


The Wrong House

by gianee



Series: Return to Cemetery Lane [2]
Category: Addams Family (TV 1964), Addams Family - All Media Types, The Munsters
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Robbery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27767146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gianee/pseuds/gianee
Summary: Marty and Claude have learned nothing from their time in prison. Now freshly released and desperate for cash they decide to revisit the strange old mansion by the cemetery from the disastrous Halloween robbery that resulted in their arrest.However, they gravely underestimate the waifish and delicate looking seventeen year old Wednesday Addams and her mortal dedication to her babysitting duties.
Relationships: Gomez Addams/Morticia Addams, Lurch (Addams Family)/Marilyn Munster
Series: Return to Cemetery Lane [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123271
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a follow on from my Near Death of a Salesman fic since I had so much fun writing it! Except this time it's very teenage Wednesday centric. I wanted to do something with sweet eccentric 60s Wednesday dealing with real danger and taking on responsibility. This fic will contain some violence, nothing graphic or nasty but harpoons, blunderbusses and throwing darts may be wielded. Inspired by the Halloween with the Addams Family episode that you can find on youtube. Hope you enjoy!

"It's really no trouble." Wednesday held baby Mara as she assured her butler and his wife. Marilyn crumpled over on the tete-a-tete with worry, cradling little Isolde close. Lurch's arm around her shoulder with Cain dropping off to sleep on his lap.  
"You both have to go. Your grandfather won't find his way out of an Armenian Zoo on his own. Especially if he's stuck in a bat enclosure. You have to go tonight if the other bats are turning on him. You know what bats are like - he won't have much time left." She continued as Marilyn's eyes welled.  
"If Eddie can't get past the Turkish boarder, and your uncle Herman and aunt Lily are stuck on an oil tanker to Stornoway then you're his only hope."  
"I'll go on my own then," Marilyn croaked turning to her husband and laying a delicate hand on his arm. He shook his head heavily and disagreed with a deep groan. "I'll be alright. You have to stay with the children."  
"But he's the only one who's fluent in Armenian" Wednesday gently argued.  
"You stay. I'll go." Lurch grumbled but Marilyn gravely shook her head. "You can't tell grandpa apart from other bats like I can, and he's in an enclosure with hundreds of them!"  
"You need to go together." Wednesday stated blankly as she held Mara's little hand. "See? they love me, they'll be fine here."  
"But Wednesday, Your parents are in Death Valley and can't get a flight back for another week, your Uncle's away being tested on by the Russians so who knows when he'll be home. Your brother won't be back from the Amazon for another few months. We couldn't possibly leave you on your own with the children. You're too young darling, it wouldn't be responsible."

The teenager sighed and rocked the contented baby in her arms. "Come on, I'm seventeen! I've looked after them plenty of times."  
"Not all three for several days and not while the big house has been empty. I'm sorry, of course I trust you, it's just there's been so many burglaries recently. It's other people I don't trust." Marilyn shook her head. Lurch gently squeezed his wife's shoulder.  
"Thing will be here..." He assured in a low grumble. Marilyn looked up and furrowed her brow. As if on queue, Thing clattered out the nearest box and waved jovially, gesturing an 'ok' with his finger and thumb. She sighed and looked to Lurch.  
"Do you think we should go?"  
"We must..."  
"And leave little Wednesday all alone with Cain and the twins? A three year old and a pair of five month old babies with a teenager! It just doesn't seem right! She's so young."  
Lurch shrugged and sighed. "She's an old soul..." He nodded. "We can trust her..."  
"But what about burglars?" Marilyn gripped his sleeve anxiously.  
"She's good with a harpoon." Lurch looked to Wednesday who nodded keenly. "I sure am! Didn't you see me on that boating holiday to the Everglades?"  
"Yes, who could forget that policeboat you hit and sank." She looked down as if to consider and then back at her husband. "But she's just a baby herself. Are you sure we couldn't bring them with us?"  
"How is dragging three infants across the iron curtain any less dangerous than leaving them with me?" Wednesday argued, Lurch silently told her to watch her tone with a familiar warning glower. "Sorry" She shrugged and corrected herself. "But I'm your only option. I'm not a baby, I'm a high school senior and a ju-jitsu black belt and I can look after a couple of kids for a few days. You'll be back by the weekend anyway."  
"Before then I hope." Marilyn shivered. "Oh I am just furious with that silly old man! Every holiday to the old country he gets himself in some sort of trouble, but this is the worst yet! He didn't even make it to Transylvania this time." She shook her head and sighed. "Are you're sure?" She asked Lurch in no uncertain terms. He didn't seem fully convinced himself as he drew a deep breath and looked to Wednesday with a mind-reading glare.

"No parties." He commanded.  
"Sure thing! No parties!"  
"No friends over."  
"No friends!"  
"No car."  
"Oh come on, Lurch!"  
"No. Car."  
She rolled her big black eyes. "Fine! We'll all stay home the whole time!"

Lurch looked back to his wife and then back to Wednesday and nodded. He slowly bowed to kiss his sleeping son on his head and then his wife's cheek. Marilyn murmured anxiously and clasped Isolde in a gentle hug, adoring the baby with gentle kisses. "We will phone you five times every day no matter what!" Her voice began to break.  
"Got it! No problem. You're really worrying over nothing. Go get your Grandpa, see the sights while your there, have a nice holiday!"  
"You have to promise me you will pick up the receiver every time we call!"  
"No sweat!" The teenager scoffed. " I'm seventeen, not seven. You can count on me!"  
"If you don't pick up we will come straight back. Promise me you'll tell us if you feel overwhelmed and I promise we will come straight back!"  
"You won't need to come back. Everything will be fine! You're really worrying over nothing. Besides, any burglars come in here, they'll be sorry, Mrs. Lurch."

The teenager gave an arrogant half smile and a sweet giggle at the calm dozing baby in her arms who babbled and cooed back as if in agreeance. This didn't remotely calm Marilyn, but then nothing would. She shared an anxious look with her husband and drew a shuddering breath. This was going to have to be the fastest Grandpa rescue mission yet.


	2. Chapter 2

"Look Marty, there's a job going for some janitors down at the civic theater!" Claude keenly circled and scribbled over the scrunched up newspaper, unbothered by the fact he had dug it out of a trash can. Marty seemed totally disinterested as he stood by the cramp apartment window, trying to ignore the leak draining from the ceiling into the bucket beside him.

  
"Give it a rest, will ya?" He spat annoyed as he stared out over the roofs. He squinted trying to make out the sleepy suburbs on the nicer side of town. The streets below were still bustling unnervingly with the rough, restless nightlife crowd. Drunken shouting, arguing and laughing and revving car engines filled the stale, dirty air. He wasn't remotely intimidated by downtown but his current standard of living did bother him. Needs must when you're fresh out of prison but Marty didn't plan on staying in this dump long, he certainly didn't plan on making any humble, honest living sweeping up popcorn and ticket stubs. They had had little success robbing houses so far, no one kept their cash stuffed under floorboards like they used to. Everyone had their money wrapped up in credit cards and collectable tableware which were little use to an ex-con. They had survived off snatched petty cash boxes and handbags so far, stealing enough to buy them takeaway pizza and cigarettes, but it wasn't enough for Marty. 

The thing he desperately needed now was a car. He looked down the dirty, dark street for one to jack but all the cars on this side of town were either filthy rust buckets or belonged to cutthroat gangsters. It was never a good idea to steal from your neighbours anyway. He'd need to look further afield if he was going to get away with it.

  
As he stared, suddenly an odd car sped into view, rounding the corner and past the window in a flash. The drunken revellers below seemed equally fascinated by the sight as they stopped and stared at the passing ghostly motor. It was a dark, fussy old 1930s Rolls Royce Phantom with the hood pulled up, a type of car Marty had only seen once when he was a little boy and once again around ten years ago in the robbery spree that had put him and Claude away. It moved like a mustang and disappeared into the night as quickly as it had appeared but it was enough to jog Marty's resentful memory.

"Addams.." Marty grimaced as he remembered and gripped the windowsill, scraping the flaking paint off with his fingernails.

"Who?"

"Dontcha remember those spooks that got us busted? That's them! No one else would have wheels like that. Where' they going at this time of night?"

"Movies?"

Marty shook his head and sucked his teeth. "We gotta go back that haunted house, Claude. They got a drawer full of loot!"

"Ah come on, Marty. Y'know maybe robbing isn't working out for us, and anyway I always liked the theater..."

"Shut up will ya, I'm trying to think of a plan."

* * *

"I gotta say, Mart, this is a neat idea taking the clipboards." Claude clicked his pen and fiddled with his false moustache, enjoying the fantasy of being someone official.

"Yeah, if anyone asks, remember we're from the 'society of historical architectural conservation'."

"Society of architectural conservation of history - got it!"

"Whatever Claude, just look the part, play it cool and let me do the talking."

The two men strode down the sleepy suburb lined with smart houses. Claude continuing to click his pen and hum like a thoughtful academic. Marty fiddled, adjusting his fake glasses as he walked, greeting passers by with a polite smile and good morning nod, fully committed to the gentle scholarly disguise. They made their way towards to looming mansion. It looked larger than how they had remembered it from that fateful night, jutting out awkwardly from the smart uniform, low gables that surrounded it. The fence was sharp and laced with poison ivy. The bare trees crept over the path like threatening claws.

A little mailman bustled up the sidewalk towards them and Marty smiled politely.

"Morning!" The mailman chirped as he stopped to fidget with his bag. "Say I've never seen you fellas round here before..." He looked them up and down and Claude began to panic.

"We're from the Society of Architectural Conservation of History." Marty crooned in his best plumy English accent as he gestured to the vast mansion. "This house here really is a marvellous example of ...er... old ..ness..." His ruse began to fall down, perhaps he should have hit the library before chancing his arm at such an ambitious disguise.

Luckily the mailman didn't appear to care. "Sure is old, buster, y'got that right. You going in there?"

"We were planning to knock the door and ask the homeowner if we could take some ...records for our... er... research."

"Gomez Addams you're looking for but he isn't in I'm afraid. Just the girl home right now. She's babysitting the big butler fella's kids but they're only rugrats, they'll not be any authority on architectural historical-ness or whatever you fellas are on about." He shrugged and pulled out the mail for the next house.

"They've left four children alone?" Marty asked, struggling to keep up the accent.

"Don't worry, Charlie, the girl's seventeen, I don't think that's too young to babysit. I've just been gabbing to her and she said there's been a family emergency with the butler's wife's grandfather. The girl's a bit odd but she's a clever kid she might be able to tell you a thing or two about the house!"

Marty couldn't help but smile. "How informative, thank you very much, kind sir."

"You from England?" The mailman looked unsure.

"Ah...eh ... you see... eh...my father was from eh … London and my mother was from Chicago. I've lived here half my life you see."

"Ah ha..." The mailman nodded dubiously. "I can tell, you've got an unique twang there, fella. Anyway good luck with the conservational history or whatever!"

Once the mailman had disappeared past them, up the neighbouring drive and far out of earshot, Marty tugged Claude close. "You here that, Claude!" He whispered excitedly, barely containing a grin. "It's just some stupid little rich brat in there with a few babies! We can come back tonight and walk in and walk out!"  
"Like taking candy from a baby, huh Marty!"

Marty grabbed Claude's shoulders and laughed "Like taking thousands of stinking green dollars from a baby, Claude!"

They suddenly tuned at the clatter of a plaid flask of coffee hitting the pavement ahead and cracking. Mr. Thompson was loading his smart , brand new 'Hawaiian blue' impala sedan full of deckchairs and picnic baskets. Mrs. Thomson was clipping the leash on their pet poodle by the door. 

"Oh dear! Bring it to the kitchen and I'll fetch the mop." She called to her husband as he picked up the broken flask, flicking sticky coffee off his hands as he lifted it from the pavement with a grumble.

He walked back towards the house muttering damnations of Thermos and Marty saw his chance. He suddenly sprinted for the wide open Impala and jumped in, Claude following closely behind, hopping in shotgun. Marty turned the ignition and the impala roared backwards out of the driveway moving the mailbox flat. Mr. and Mrs. Thomson looked on frozen in terror and horror. The poodle barked furiously as the Thomson's picnic was flung out of the open trunk and splattered over the tidy suburb road and Marty and Claude screeched off at breakneck speed back towards the seedier side of town. 


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh darling, isn't there some other way home? You'd think they'd at least have camels in Nevada!" Morticia fretted, pacing the ramshackle ranch of the abandoned mining town. The whole area had been a present from Gomez to Morticia for their tenth wedding anniversary and it was an ideal honeymoon retreat with its scorpions and complex of forgotten decaying mine shafts. However, Gomez had bought it thinking Lurch would always be on hand to drive them wherever and whenever he called. They were finding it odd to be so stranded and not be able to use money to get out of a situation. Gomez had managed to bribe a cab firm to make the drive out from the nearest town but it never arrived on account of the engine exploding from the heat. Their only hope now was Cousin Itt, who was happy to pick them up in his biplane. Unfortunately he wouldn't be able to until the following week as he was currently stuck in Tromso, de-icing his propellers. No other flight company or individual was willing to pass over the desert in such a vicious heat wave.

"Cara mia, this is my fault I should have got my driver's license. It's just, I never thought Lurch would ever settle down!"  
"He always seemed happy as a playboy." Morticia sighed and sunk into a brittle, sun scorched porch chair. "I'm ever so glad to see him with children of his own. I love those little children dearly, that's why the thought of our Wednesday left with them, defenceless on her own scares me so. Oh I know it can't be helped but I just want to get home to them and make sure she and the little one's are safe! Especially with all these awful burglaries!"

"Cara Bela, our Wednesday is not a feeble child! She can hold her own. You know how confident she is with the old blow dart! Why, do you remember when she was nine years old and she hit that Goodyear blimp right out of the sky?"  
"I don't want her to have to use her blow dart, bubulah." Morticia almost sobbed as she held her pale hands to her chest. "My little girl. I'm so worried. Oh, I need to call her!"

"If only the telephone pole didn't catch fire this morning." Gomez chewed his cigar.  
"That _was_ a spectacle to behold." Morticia crooned, her wide blue eyes growing wider. "It would have been so romantic to watch if we didn't have all this hanging over us."  
"She'll be alright, my dear! Why don't we just have a little optimism that all will be well!"  
"I think that's about all we can do." Morticia said as she too a deep anxious breath. Gomez settled down into a rickety bench and held his arms out for his wife to join. She smiled gently as she stood up and walked towards him. She fell into his lap and he held her in a reassuring embrace in the maddening heat, sure she would be in heaven if it wasn't for the anxiety she felt for the children back home.  
"It's just I have this awful feeling, darling. That someone or something dangerous is lurking around that neighbourhood."  
"My dear, they won't know what hit them if they try to pick on our little toadstool."


	4. Chapter 4

Mr. Thomson once spent half a summer building a ten foot wall along the edge of his rear lawn just to not have to look at the old house during barbeques. He didn't _dislike_ the family, but when Wednesday and Pugsley were children he was nearly driven over the brink by the constant need to throw back headless dolls, lightbulbs and mine-shells that would land in his smart garden. He was hoping in the future the weird butler's kids would stay in their own garden and not bother him.

He was used to the Addams by now, he had spent over twenty years as their neighbour now. He knew the strange big brute of a butler was actually very mild mannered, shy and artistic. He was friendly with the butler's nice, friendly and far too pretty wife, Marilyn. Gomez and Morticia were harmless enough if very over generous. Even Fester didn't really mean any ill-will although Mr. Thompson wished he wouldn't shoot fireworks at his house so much. He knew Wednesday was not a nasty girl. Not a scary, aggressive, troublemaking teenager that went around whacking mailboxes and throwing eggs. She was odd, introspective and quiet and he had to admit it was nice when she'd perfectly play her stroviol in the garden.

He shuddered and huffed frustrated as he walked through the gate and jumped slightly as it slammed on its own accord behind him. The police had been utterly useless as always. They just sat and took coffee scribbling notes and shrugging. Apparently, the fact there had been so many burglaries recently meant it would be unlikely they'd be able to track down the car. Mrs. Thompson had to remind them to note the car's license plate before they went. Mr. Thompson knew it would be up to him to ask the neighbours if they had seen the theft.

He had been injured by the doorbell pull too many times to consider touching it so he knocked instead and waited. He knocked again, still no answer, he began to become concerned. Eventually he resolved to just yank the bell pull quickly. He managed to pull it out with less effort than he had thought but as he dropped it it just hung out the door limply as if broken. When he picked it up to try and push it back in, it snapped back on his fingers and sounded a dull fog horn. The door creaked open on empty space. He looked for a moment confused before a small voice greeted him.

"Ello." Cain droned, looking up with an unsettling glare. Mr. Thompson took off his hat and stiffly crouched to better hear to the little boy, cupping his hand around his not-so-deaf ear. "Hello there little soldier! Could I speak to Mr. or Mrs. Addams please?"

Cain shook his head. "No." He said blankly.

"Why ever not?"

"No here." The toddler shrugged.

"What about your Mommy?"

"Mama gone."

"What about Mr. Frump."

"In Rusher."

Mr. Thompson began to worry, speaking to Lurch was the last thing he wanted to deal with but if he was the only adult in the house he'd have to do.

"How about your dad?"

"Daddy gone."

This wouldn't do at all. He began to feel a wash of anger and panic. The family were certainly weird but child neglecters he did not have them down as. Especially not Marilyn who looked so picture perfect with her black double stroller walking past his window on rainy mornings. He took Cain's hand and walked into the strange house, forgetting all about the car and his fear of the old mansion, now only worried about the children.  
"Who's looking after you, sonny?"

"Wesdey."

"Could you take Mr. Thompson to Wednesday? There's a clever boy."

He supposed that wasn't so bad. She was after all going to an ivy league college in the summer. No need to call child protection today, the toddler seemed happy, fed, washed with combed hair and was neatly dressed in a clean dark blue corduroy romper. Cain led him by the hand, dragging with impressive strength through the winding maze of a house until he pulled him to a door that opened on a large kitchen. Wednesday was inside, dressed in a typically odd pluming dark burgundy velvet dress that terminated at her knees with a fussy lace trim, her wavy black hair tied up in an elaborate, relaxed, half-braided up do. She slid about the kitchen in white stocking feet happily singing and dancing along to some awful British rock and roll as she fed the two babbling babies in their high chairs. The radio was blasting some awful nonsense song about 'tiger feet' as Wednesday hopped and slid about between spoonful's, entertaining the giggling, delighted babies. Mr. Thompson pined for his hay day of smooth big bands and dance halls and wondered what was wrong with kids today. She looked just like her maniac father dancing around like that.

"What in the world is that racket!?" He covered his good ear with his free hand and screwed up his face.

"You don't like Les Gray, Mr. Thompson?"

"No I do _not_ like Kev May! I thought the beetles were bad! Turn it off, kid, you know I'm deaf as a doornail!"

Wednesday smiled and turned and switched the radio off. "Sit down if you like! How are you today?" She politely asked, not looking up from Isolde as she returned to gently feeding the infant with an ornate silver spoon.

"Not so good, I'm afraid." He said sinking into a wobbly kitchen table next to the babies and picked up Mara's spoon, perched on the edge of a bowl of luminous green liquid baby food. Baby food was unappetising at the best of times, but this was particularly slimy and scaly as it plopped off the spoon. Mara didn't share his disgust as she wiggled excitedly and held her mouth open as he fed her. He supposed she was a Lurch after all, although it was obvious both girls had luckily inherited their mother's perfect doll-like face.

"Why ever not?"

"Would you believe I've just had the new Impala stolen, right from my driveway, right in front of me. I left the doors open and walked back to the house for just a second, next thing I knew two guys jumped in and it was gone. Speeding off to god knows where." He took a sad breath and Cain climbed onto his knee in sympathy, electing a soft chuckle from the old neighbour as he tussled the boy's white hair.

"Oh Mr. Thompson! That's terrible, you only bought it last month!

"I was wondering if you had seen the guys who did it. My eyesight is terrible so I didn't see much. Mr. Briggs the mailman said it was a tall guy with glasses and a short guy with a moustache."

"Moustache? Couldn't be father, him and mother are trapped in Death Valley at the moment. I'm sorry I didn't see anything, I'm so sorry to hear that happened to you."  
"Nah, it's alright kid. I've lived through two great wars you know, I'm not going to fall to pieces over a car!" He wiped Mara's face with her lacey bib and managed a gentle smile. Wednesday gave him a sympathetic look and walked over to the kitchen cabinets opening what looked like a cutlery drawer. Instead of spoons however she began to pull out reams of fifty dollar notes that had been stashed away as if they were only forgotten receipts.

"I'm sorry I can't find you a nice Chevy Light Six or Lancia Alfa but I hope this will do. You know father and mother would absolutely insist!" She dropped an almighty stack of notes on the table in front of the old man.

"Oh no, honey that's not what I'm asking for." He shook his head, uncomfortable in the presence of so much money. Too proud to take charity. "The insurance will cover it."

"You can't trust insurance companies, certainly not insurance salesmen. Please take it. You know father and mother, they'll be so disappointed in me if I didn't help. I'm trying to prove that I can be a responsible adult anyway. Show that I can look after the kids on my own." She smiled, Mr Thompson furrowed his brow.

"You're here with the kids on your own? For how long?"  
She shook her head unsure. "Mrs. Lurch's grandfather has got into some trouble. They needed to go help him I don't know how long they'll be. I'm perfectly capable of looking after the kids but Lurch and his wife have already phoned twice today."

"Oh, us old folk are always such trouble makers. Worse than the kids for sure. It can't be easy for them having to leave such young children. Where is her grandfather?"

"Armenia, they drove out to the airport last night."

"Good god. Armenia? They'll be away for some time then. There's no non-stops to Armenia from Newark that's for sure."

Wednesday didn't seem at all perturbed or daunted by the thought of looking after the children and to her credit she was managing fine. She took Isolde out of her high chair and took off her bib, sitting the baby in her lap as she sat across from her neighbour.

"They're really very easy, If the twins fuss I can just turn on the vacuum cleaner and it sooths them right to sleep. Cain will cry if he hears the Mickey Mouse clubhouse song but that's about it. I just keep the TV off. They're very happy."

"Huh." The old man looked down at Cain on his lap who gave him a wonky half smile as he munched at his pitch black burnt toast. They were odd kids, but he agreed they were contented enough. He looked to the two girls. "So how can you tell them apart?" He asked, genuinely curious. It was apparent they were carbon copies of one another.

"Mara's very quiet and much lazier than Isolde and Isolde likes to squeal where Mara likes to babble."  
He chuckled and unlatched Mara's bib and she grabbed at his hand, cooing. He couldn't help but feel a wash of grandfatherly instinct over the small, porcelain doll-like baby. A sentimental smile fell in concern.

"I gotta say, I don't like the idea of you being home alone. With your butler here I think all the thugs and villains for a twenty mile radius know to keep clear - but I'm worried those men were on the block to check out the houses. Folk round here know your family and they know how wealthy you are. If the wrong sort knew Lurch was gone..."

Wednesday nodded understandingly. She didn't agree that she was particularly vulnerable but she knew where he was coming from. She wasn't so sheltered that she didn't know the direction the world was heading in. Just as she was about to try and convince the old neighbour not to worry, the phone rang. Cain immediately hopped off Mr. Thompson's knee and scurried for for the receiver. After a minute he returned trailing the impossibly long wire with him.

"Your mother?" Wednesday asked with a slight inflection of exasperation.

"Mama! Mama!" He shouted into the receiver, not remotely bored by his mother's constant calling. "Mama I had toast!"

"Wonderful, my sweet darling! Was it lovely and burnt?"

"Yeah!"

"Did Wednesday make it for you?"

"Uh huh, mama!" He scrambled up to the teenager and held the candlestick receiver aloft for her to take. "Wesday, look it's Mama!"

She smiled at him gently and took the receiver, sighing and rolling her eyes as she held the phone to her ear. Before Marilyn could talk she began a rehearsed rant.

"Look, Mrs. Lurch. Everything's fine. I've washed them, fed them, the girls have had their lizard skin soup and they're all happy and safe. If you don't believe me, here's Mr. Thompson, he'll tell you everything's alright." She gave the receiver to the old man who took it clearing his throat and greeting the fretting woman on the other end of the line.

"Hello, Mrs. Lurch. Rest assured all is well, I can see your children are well cared for. Wednesday really is a very reliable youngster."

"Oh Mr. Thompson! What a relief to know you've checked in on them! I can't begin to tell you how awful I feel leaving Wednesday with the children but we simply had no choice!"

"Ah don't worry, she's seventeen, that's plenty old enough to babysit for a few days. I heard about your grandfather, how is he?"

"Oh we haven't reached him yet. We're waiting for a layover at Heathrow. There's a flight back to New York and I just want to jump on it and come home. I'm ever so worried!"

"There's no need for that. Has your grandfather taken unwell?" Mr. Thompson asked gently.

"He is feeling unwell. He's suffered a massive bat attack."

"A massive heart attack how terrible! How old is he?"

"Oh positively ancient, no one's really sure."

Mr. Thompson chuckled assuming that was a joke. "I'm just the same, Mrs. Lurch! Listen, how about I check up on her again before the kids go to sleep, say seven?"

"Oh would you! That would be such a relief to me!" Marilyn sounded audibly less stressed. "I really appreciate you coming round to check on her."

"Well I actually came round because my car was stolen out of my drive this morning." Mr. Thompson said glibly not noticing Wednesday frantically shaking her head, waving her hands and mouthing 'no'. He didn't seem to twig even after Marilyn's voice fell silent for a moment.

"S - stolen?" She finally managed weakly, her delicate voice braking.

"Yeah it's unbelievable, what is the world coming to. I came round to see if Wednesday had seen the two perps. The police are being useless as ever so I've been asking around the neighbours -" Wednesday jumped up, Isolde still in one arm and grabbed the receiver. "Haha, you're so funny Mr. Thompson-"

"Stolen?! His car was stolen?! Put Mr. Thompson back on!"

"Well he left his doors and trunk open I mean what does he expect!"

"- Hey!" The old man objected.

"I'm not leaving the doors of the house unlocked at night, Mrs. Lurch and I can always find Uncle Fester's blunderbuss and-"

"That does it! We're coming home!"

"What about your grandpa? You're just going to just let him rot in a hostile Armenian bat enclosure?"

"If you're asking me to choose between my ancient, trouble-making grandfather and my three innocent, vulnerable babies, _surprisingly_ I'm choosing the latter! Grandpa has gotten out of worse on his own. We're getting on the next flight home. We'll see you soon, goodbye darling."

Marilyn hung up the receiver and Wednesday sighed, the phone still held to her ear as the line went dead. "You didn't have to tell about the car, Mr. Thompson."  
Mr. Thompson only furrowed his brow, consumed with confusion. "Why on earth is her grandfather in a bat... enclosure...?"

* * *

Marilyn hurried out of the phone box, her head swimming with worry trying not to cry with the anxiety. She could easily see her husband standing head and shoulders above the busy London crowd staring stoically at the departure board. She hurried up to him, desperately grappling at the lapels at his black wool overcoat.

"Darling, we need to go home right now! Mr. Thompson has had his Impala stolen! I knew it! there's burglars scoping the block! It's not safe!"  
Lurch shuddered a nervous grumble in shared concern and rested a comforting, heavy hand around his wife's dainty shoulders.

"Can't." He grunted and gesture with a nod at the board.

Marilyn turned to see that all transatlantic flights had been cancelled and whimpered, biting her painted nails. They were trapped in Europe for at least another day, possibly more. They wouldn't make it back by the evening that was for sure. She grabbed her husband's large hand and effortlessly pulled him through the crowd towards the help desk, rushing to the attendant who greeted them with a polite; "Good afternoon, Sir and Madame." Trying his best not to stare at Lurch.

"Good afternoon." She tried to smile, sniffling back tears. "Are there really no flights at all back to New York? We don't mind paying more. You see we have three very young children we urgently need to get back to."

The attendant obviously felt sorry for her. "I am dreadfully sorry, Madame." He said sympathetically. "You see there's a dangerous freak storm passing over the East Coast. It simply isn't safe to fly. All planes for North America and Canada have been grounded for at least forty-eight hours. If you like I can offer you a complimentary taxi If that would help?"

"A taxi to New York would be just perfect." Marilyn tried to joke, the attendant chuckled.

"I wouldn't like to see the fare for that, Madame!" He joined in the stiff banter and wrote her a note for a black cab. "All I can recommend is you head into Windsor, have a good pub dinner and find a lovely hotel; the Royal Adelaide is rather nice. Ring your childminder and let them know what's happened. Please don't catch a cold waiting for the board to change, it'll be some time before the storm passes."

Marilyn took the note with an appreciative thank you and a fragile breath, managing a strained smile. "I've always wanted a ride in a black cab."

"We certainly don't have your big American Cadillac cars here but rest assured, the black cabs have a surprising bit of leg room!" He nodded at Lurch with a smile who grumbled back with a complacent nod, confused as to what he meant.

"Thank you very much, you've been very kind. Goodbye." Marilyn said politely with a nod before taking Lurch's hand again and leading him back over to the bank of smart red phone boxes.

  
"He's right." Lurch grumbled, his hand on her back as she opened the phone box door. She turned, reaching up to lay her hands on his shoulders.

"But we won't be able to sleep." She shook her head sadly "That connection to Frankfurt is boarding in half an hour. We may as well get Grandpa. Wednesday's right, we're probably his only hope. Mr. Thompson said he'll check on her, I'll make sure she's locked all the doors and windows. If we go now, pick up Grandpa in Armenia then get a flight back transpacific it'll probably be quicker than just waiting here for the storm to pass." Marilyn rambled and Lurch silently agreed to whatever she thought with a quiet nod of his head. She smiled lovingly and reached up to stroke his severe face with her thumb.

"I'd kill that silly old man if he wasn't already dead." She joked bittersweetly, earning a rare deep chuckle from Lurch.


	5. Chapter 5

Claude smoothed his hands over the smart, deep blue velour seats, impressed by the desirable new Impala. It still had that new car smell that Claude has so missed, he shuffled against the broad, cushioned seat, fiddled with the glove box and fidgeted with the stereo. So much was different now from when he had first gone into prison. Cars had gotten bigger, music had gotten louder but some things never change. Things like Marty's penchant for aggressive robberies and his need for ever upping-the-stakes was something that the corrective system had failed to address. That much was made clear when Marty returned from the ramshackle minimart, clutching a grocery bag of booze, cigarettes, duct tape and ladies pantyhose. Claude wondered what the checkout girl must have thought, but then that was probably a regular afternoon purchase around these parts. Marty flung something bagged in plastic in the back footwell before hopping into the drivers seat, aggressively throwing the car into drive with a resistant scrape of the gears. He plugged his teeth with a cheap cigarette, pluming smoke through a maniacal grimace as he took off out of the parking lot. Tires skidding black tracks along the street.

Claude eyed the mysterious small bag in the back seat as it rattled around the floor. "Get that will ya, Claude. We don't want that thing going off in here."  
Knowing Marty, Claude could guess what the package was as he leaned over and picked it up, carefully folding it into the generous glovebox out of sight. The milder man didn't really like guns though he pretended to just to keep up with Marty.  
"Surely we don't need _that_ to get cash off some little rich brat, Mart." Claude protested softly and Marty only scoffed.

"Y'never know..." He chuckled coyly. "Kids these days are real mean! What is the world coming to, eh Claude? So much violence these days!" He feigned an outraged, pearl-clutching, suburban voice before giving way to another mad laugh. Claude joined in with a half-hearted chuckle as Marty turned up the stereo, bringing the car up to full speed.

* * *

Cain raced his large battered, tin-plate Oldsmobile six through the house as fast as he could run. Making noises like a fighter jet, consumed in his high speed action-drama. His grey, stripy long-johns were a flight suit in his mind. He rumbled along the top corridor, speeding the toy around corners on two wheels, through swag curtains before enthusiastically shoving the car down the split-level steep steps into the Livingroom below. He bellowed noises of disaster, booms and squeals as he acted a grim car crash watching delighted as the large toy clattered and ricocheted off the steps, tumbling like a rock. He held his little hands upstretched in excitement, hopping on the spot as he eagerly watched. Wednesday joined in the fun from below with a laugh.  
"Do de news, Wesdey!" He squealed over the railing.

Wednesday cast her voice deep and official like a six o'clock news anchor. She put her finger to her ear as if listening to a earpiece. "Coming in live, we have reports of a devastating car crash on the living room stairs! Reports are saying a car has just fallen off the top landing, hitting every step on the way down! Truly dreadful images here - the car has been absolutely crushed in the fall. Witnesses say it drove straight off the top at full speed, no information as to why. Possibly a brake failure although impossible to tell at this point. The sheriff reports there has been sadly no survivors!"  
Cain cheered an ecstatic whoop from the top step before rumbling down the stairs himself, shuffling on his back like a bobsledder.

Isolde kicked, squeaked and giggled on her back on the plush divan besides Wednesday, biting at a whalebone silver teether and excitedly jangling the connecting bell. It was seven thirty, Mr. Thompson had just left from checking in, and the children were now supposed to be winding down. Mara at least was beginning to doze in her cosy cane mosses basket, her glass bottle of yak milk slipping out of her pale little hands as she dropped off. The other two were as wide awake as ever unfortunately. Wednesday had to admit she was good at keeping them entertained but not so much soothing them to sleep. Lurch and Marilyn were such relaxing personalities. Marilyn in her armadillo-hide rocking chair singing a haunting lullaby would put Cain to sleep in ten minutes, Isolde in five. Lurch had read Wednesday many bedtime stories over her childhood, none of which he had actually finished. His droning deep voice was enough to hypnotise Houdini.

The children were obviously climbing the walls without the mediating presence of their mild-mannered parents and Wednesday was starting to feel somewhat daunted. With all the unrest of the previous night with their parents rushing off to Europe to save Grandpa, they didn't go to sleep until nine and Wednesday had let the twins nap a little longer in the afternoon. The excitement of the building thunderstorm wasn't helping the situation either. The frail old glass rattled in it's lead panes and every clattering strike of violent lightning brought a delighted, reinvigorated squeal of laughter from Cain and Isolde. The toddler rolled down the steps, absolutely hyperactive. The teenager wondered where he got his energy from; it certainly wasn't Lurch. 

"Hey! Cain the pain! Come and get a story!" Wednesday spied a dusty old book stashed under the the chaise at her feet she reached for it and flicked through to make sure it was suitable for soothing young children. ' _Mr Arcularis'_ ; perfect. Lurch had even gotten to the sixth page a few times with Wednesday and Pugsley when they were small. Cain scrambled onto the cushions next to his baby sister and snuggled in to the teenager. He whinged annoyed when Isolde kicked him but Wednesday lugged him her the other side. She took the baby propped up slightly in her right arm as she hugged the other arm around Cain, holding the book open in her left hand.

_Mr. Arcularis ate his soup with gusto-it was nice and hot. "Well, maybe I shouldn't say it, but there's a corpse on board, going to Ireland; and I never yet knew a voyage with a corpse on board that we didn't have bad weather."_

_"Why, steward, you're just superstitious! What nonsense. "That's a very ancient superstition," said Mr. Arcularis. "I've heard it many times. Maybe it's true. Maybe we'll be wrecked. And what does it matter, after all?" He was very bland._

_"Then let's be wrecked," said the parson coldly._

_Nevertheless, Mr. Arcularis felt a shudder go through him on hearing the steward's remark. A corpse in the hold-a coffin? Perhaps it was true. Perhaps some disaster would befall them._

Isolde had finally settled, her doll-like, pale blue eyes eyes began to close and her little arms softly fell limp as she fell into a peaceful sleep. Cain unfortunately perked right up at the mention of a shipwreck.

Wednesday couldn't help but reflect on the idea of transportation of a corpse being unlucky. Bad luck always seemed to follow Marilyn's long departed Grandpa; which is why he always insisted on flying solo despite his age. Maybe that was why the couple were currently trapped in Europe, their holy-unwilled intent to transport a cursed corpse as bedevilled as Grandpa was provoking celestial resistance. Just like that, another clap of thunder and the skies finally erupted with the rain coming down in cutting sheets. All Wednesday wanted to do was stand in the storm, it always did wonders for her hair, but she would have to wait quite a bit longer for Cain to finally calm down and go to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

By eight Cain wasn't exactly fast asleep, but him being in bed at all seemed like enough. When she had left the attic nursery he was beginning to doze, curled up on the old metal bed in a pile of welsh blankets hugging his carved toy Kamloops boat like a bear and watching the rain on the glass. She had pinned the curtains open and put the window on the latch to let the vicious thunderstorm sooth the infants to sleep. Mara and Isolde slept top-to-toe in the almighty carved oak Victorian crib, the wind softly rocking the cradle. She soothed Cain with a fond stroke of his hair and his eyes fluttered finally shut. Wednesday crept slowly back to the door, silent in her stocking feet and snuffed the oil lamp on the sideboard. She finally edged out of the room and down the corridor leaving the dim light of the hallway on. She took a breath and smiled at herself, contented in a job well done as she enjoyed the oppressive rumble of the whipping, frenzied storm.

She was hardly surprised when suddenly the phone rang. She cursed to herself, admittedly impressed by how Marilyn was able to find access to so many phone boxes across Europe. She skidded through the wooden corridors and hopped down the stairs, snatching the receiver off the lacquered side table.  
"Are they asleep, Wednesday?" Came Marilyn's soft but audibly exhausted voice.  
"Probably not anymore since you keep calling! You know Cain gets excited when the phone rings!"  
"Oh, my sweet little monster..." Marilyn's voice nearly broke. "I feel so lost without them, like I'm missing a part of myself. I'm can't stand this."  
Wednesday softened. She didn't quite understand the fretting. It was a little insulting that she appeared to have so little faith in her. The idea of journeying through middle Europe sounded wonderful to the teenager, the fact Marilyn was so resentful of the adventure was a little annoying - but then Wednesday didn't know what it was like to have children.  
"Where are you?"  
"On the Prinz Eugen, it's no Orient express sadly but it's fast enough. We're just stopped at Nuremburg for half an hour and I found a call box on the platform."  
"It must be two in the morning!"  
"It is. It's a sleeper, but I can't sleep, darling."  
"Everything. is. fine. They're all in bed. I've washed them, fed them, dressed them in clean pyjamas! Cain had tadpole-in-the-hole for dinner and I've fed the girl's what Lurch left. The twins have had all of their milk and they are asleep and safe. The doors are locked and Thing is on the lookout. Now please get back on that train and try to sleep!"  
Marilyn sighed and muttered a reluctant tired "yes." Silently resolving that she was perhaps too over protective of the children.

He own mother and father were awful, total monsters; she had been sent away for the crime of her appearance. Lily, Herman and Grandpa did their best to make up for it but even they couldn't hide their discomfort at her unfortunate face. It was obvious the three kids more resembled her sadly, but she could never imagine not loving them for how they looked. She was determined that her own children would never feel that void of having absent disappointed parents.

  
She shivered and took a deep breath. "Thank you, Wednesday, dear."  
"That's alright, now please get on that train!"  
"Yes, goodbye dear. Kiss them goodnight from their father and me."  
"Already done! Goodnight Mrs. Lurch!"

* * *

The conductor had stalled the train to wait for the pretty foreign passenger. He felt sorry for the obviously distressed and perhaps quite lost woman not to mention, intimidated by her odd, imposing husband who stood protectively by her in the chilly small hours of the morning. Marilyn gave the conductor a grateful, pleasant smile and a polite "Danke _"_ as they re-boarded and made their way back to the compartment.  
The world was not built for men like Lurch, but this first class compartment was barely built for Marilyn. It was a tiny space, cramped and miserable but luckily this couple quite enjoyed the misery. Neither the butler or his wife had slept in well over a day. They had failed to sleep at all on the flight from New York and even Lurch who only slept three hours a night, was beyond exhausted. In the cold double berth compartment they nestled together and finally succumbed to a dreadfully uncomfortable sleep.

* * *

Wednesday lounged on the livingroom chaise, listing about on her back, dancing her legs in the air as she read the ancient New England Journal of Medicine article on syphilis like it were a seventeen magazine. She looked at the moose-rear clock as it chimed ten o'clock and decided she'd better do her hourly check on the children. She flopped to the side, rolling off the settee and made her way up the stairs. As she reached the second landing she was met with a familiar little figure. Cain was curled up on the steps, shrouded in a blanket clutching his little toy boat. "Ghosts." He whined as Wednesday sighed.  
"But Cain, you love ghosts!"  
He shook his little head. "This ones bad ghosts."

Wednesday took his hand and he sheepishly led her through the corridors anxiously sucking his fingers. The candle that Wednesday had left alight on the top corridor had been blown out. It wasn't a huge cause for alarm as the wind tended to cut through the house. What was a slight concern however was the figure of a man at the end of the hall, holding one of the sleeping twins in his arms. From this distance in this light she thought perhaps it was cousin Shy, but from the way Cain cowered behind her legs that didn't seem to be the case. It couldn't be cousin Cackle because whoever he was he never made a sound. He just stood frozen in the dark, obviously staring down at her. She couldn't allow herself to be intimidated or scared, she scooped Cain up holding him on her hip as he curled in, hiding his face from the offending figure.

Suddenly the overhead light switched on and the figure was illuminated. He was no family member that she knew of. He was dressed in a check suit and wearing a pair of ladies pantyhose over his head, squashing his features flat and giving him a ghoulish look. He was holding Mara in one arm and in his other hand, a gun.

"My! Haven't you grown!" Came a mocking, cruel voice from behind her. She turned and a taller man stood there holding Isolde who began to wriggle and cry at the unfriendly caller. He held his gun more confidently, pointing it at the teenager and smiling chillingly under his pantyhose mask. "Get down those stairs now you little rich brat!" He gestured with the gun and Wednesday stared at him, her huge black eyes cutting him down. If Marty had any sense, he would know from that look that he had picked on the wrong girl, but as she stood there, five foot five and a hundred and twenty pounds in her funny velvet dress, he wasn't about to let her intimidate him. "Move!" He bellowed and Isolde and Mara erupted into hysterics, Cain began to cry into Wednesday's shoulder.

She silently made her way back down the steps, gently patting Cain's back to try and settle him. For that alone, Wednesday resolved, she'd make those two, whoever they were, wish they'd never been born.


	7. Chapter 7

She sat on the chaise with Cain cuddled into her, the poor little boy shivering with fear. Ghosts, witches, vampires, monsters, werewolves and disembodied hands he was quite happy around - strange mortal men with guns, less so. Claude and Marty had gotten sick of holding the girls and had put them down in the same mosses basket, being sure to keep it behind them on the table separate from Wednesday. It was apparent they intended to keep the defenceless little girls as bargaining chips if needed. It was truly pathetic and Wednesdays told them so which Marty met with cocking the gun.

She remembered them now the arrogant burglars had removed their stocking masks. They were the same strange men from her childhood that the family had found hiding in the bushes and had assumed were awkwardly old trick or treaters. She knew they had been sent up the river and after it turned out they were brutal and prolific armed robbers. The family trait of always assuming the best in people was being surely tested as Marty soullessly aimed the weapon at Wednesday.

"Lurch will be home any minute." She lied. "He'll kick your ass. He'll sew your pelt into a winter coat for making his kids cry. He'll pack you both into a carry-on suitcase live and fling you into the sea." Claude could believe that, he thought he had imagined that impossibly strange butler but picking up the family portrait on the living room mantlepiece he was reminded that he was for real.

Marty snatched the photo from a worried looking Claude and snorted. "I thought that big monster's face was a mask. How'd he get a doll like that?"  
Wednesday furrowed her brow and looked him up and down. "Maybe because he's a decent person. Hard concept for you guys to grasp I'm sure."  
Marty stuck his tongue in his cheek and narrowed his eyes. "And these three, did he rob graves and sew them together?"  
"They had sex." Wednesday looked blank and Marty and Claude groaned in revulsion. "But then you guys wouldn't know anything about that sort of thing, spending most of your sad empty lives in a prison where you belong."  
"You better shut that smart mouth and give us all the loot you got in this menagerie."  
"All the what?" She said, plainly.  
"Don't get fresh, brat! You ain't the genius you think you are! If you were you wouldn't have left the kids room window on a rusty latch. The money. Get up!" He shimmied the gun, gesturing for Wednesday to stand up and lead him to the bureau that he'd remembered from the robbery ten years ago. He had spent the last ten years laying awake in his cell thinking about that drawer, he had never seen so much money in his life. A lifetime of wasting his time getting a couple of hundred dollars here and there from gas stations and little old ladies when all along that house that he had always thought was abandoned was stuffed with hundreds of thousands in notes and bullion.

Wednesday began to pick Cain up before Marty stopped her. "Why you taking him? I said get the keys for that drawer! Not take little Jack Frost on a walk!" Wednesday glared before she sat Cain back on the seat. His big eyes welled up and he held onto her sleeves with a hopeless whimper. She kissed his forehead but it did nothing to dull his fear of the two robbers. She tore herself away under the command of the cocked gun. The guilt could have killed her when her godbrother descended into hopeless, lonely cries.

"Ugh, god! This kid is giving me a headache! Shut him up Claude!"  
"Ah, come on Marty, the baby ain't done nothing!"  
"I'm not saying shoot him just give him a candy to keep him quiet or something!"  
Wednesday stamped and snarled giving the taller burglar a start. "You go anywhere near him and I'll-"  
"You'll do what, rich girl?" Marty got in her face, pulling the gun up to her eye level. "You'll do what you're told if you wanna be a good babysitter. Now get that drawer open! Claude, get that brat!"

Claude fumbled about in his coat pocket, he always carried a bag of hard candy and lemon sherbets. Any other child would be delighted by the offer of sugar but Cain looked truly horrified at the sight of the colorful wrapped bon-bon. The burglar scooped up Cain who kicked and fought. He didn't expect the three year old to be quite so heavy or nearly as strong. Cain squealed, clawed and elbowed him in the ribs then kicked him in the shins wiggling loose enough to bite the burglar in the arm and sprung free. He landed on his feet and took off like a little rat, scurrying away into the dark underpasses of the vast mansion. Claude stumbled winded and grasped his arm. He pulled off his coat to find his white shirt running in red. The apparently defenceless little boy had savaged him, biting clean through a thick coat sleeve. Claude clamped his other hand around the wound as his head span. "Get after him before he wakes up the neighbours!" Marty ordered, unbothered by the condition of his friend. Claude stumbled gasping in the direction that Cain had went.

"DADDY!" Cain called through tears as he pushed open every door, scrambling through the house, terrified by the fact that for once in his life his father didn't immediately appear when called.

_Lurch bolted upright in the cramped carriage. His heart thumping, he could here his son's little voice ringing in his ears. Marilyn had fallen asleep with her arm over his shoulder and was woken up when he jumped. Lurch panted catching his breath as his wife soothed him, rubbing his back.  
"Just... the train... moving..." He managed in his cold sweats, anxious not to worry her over what must have been just a bad dream. She didn't seem totally convinced. He didn't either._

"Daddy! Daddy! Mama! Daddy!" Cain rumbled through the halls and rooms in despair, winding into the basement until he found the playroom. Unfortunately for him, Claude was already there.

  
"Nice little guy. Be a good little boy and come over here." Claude tried to calm his little assailant, holding his palms flat like he was trying to round up an escaped pig.  
Cain recoiled in terror and backed himself to a wall. "No! You a bad man! Wait till daddy gets you!" He spat, before he scrambled along the wall.  
Claude had him backed into a corner, he figured Marty's suggestion of giving him a handful of sticky toffees to glue his mouth closed was probably not a bad idea considering his ferocious bite. He pulled the full paper bag of candy out of his pocket, putting the gun in it's place. A gun was far too much to point as a pre-schooler, even if that pre-schooler did bite like a crocodile.  
"You been a mean little monster to poor old Claudey so you better be quiet and do what you're told!"  
"No!" Cain squealed before he pressed a hidden brick on the wall he backed on to. Suddenly the wall turned and Cain disappeared behind the hidden door. Claude cursed and stamped and thumped the wall, desperately trying to find the seam of the doorway in the brick. As he crouched over running his fingers along the wall, Thing slipped out silently and took the revolver, replacing it with one of Uncle Fester's joke flag guns without the robber noticing a thing.

* * *

Wednesday turned the key to her father's vast mahogany bureau, her face stoic regardless of the revolver pushed to her temple. She paused as she unlocked it turning to face Marty and darkly glowering at him.  
"You're adorable." He mocked. "You think I'm scared of you? You think they put us in Sing Sing for ten years for stealing candy? You don't know what you're dealing with, brat. Now get that drawer opened now!"  
She silently yanked the drawer open revealing her father's loose change. Reams of banded notes spilled out and the burglar's eyes went wild. He shoved Wednesday out of the way as he grabbed the notes, stuffing them into his leather bag. The bag filled up but Marty continued to crush the notes in until the drawer was completely empty. Wednesday looked on with despair, the theft of the money was the least of her problem, she couldn't care less about that but she desperately needed to get away and find poor Cain. The girls had calmed somewhat, cuddled up together in their mosses basket. Of course, she didn't want to leave them, but Cain had antagonised that other burglar and she was frightened as to what other candies the thug had up his sleeve. They must have been truly depraved to try and give a defenceless little pre-schooler a _jolly rancher_. 

"You've got your money now get that other goon and get lost!" She spat at Marty and he grabbed her by the wrist, squeezing it threateningly. Wednesday grimaced as the thug's grip.  
"I don't think so." He snarled. "If that's what daddy keeps in his drawer I want to know what he keeps in the mattress." He yanked her by the arm, pulling her hand behind her back and marched her up the stairs. She didn't dare cry or show any fear; her face was as blank as ever. She looked over her shoulder at her two defenceless god-sister tucked up together in the basket and mouthed her promise to come back.

_Morticia jumped in her skin, a dreadful sheet of heat and horror came over her as she sat knitting anxiously in the porch of the tumble-down abandoned ranch house. "  
Querida! Whatever's wrong!" Gomez appeared in an instant and scooped her into his arms. She whimpered in panic and gripped his shoulders in fear. "Something's wrong!" Was all she could manage, she wasn't entirely sure what she herself meant but it was a feeling that felt like a fact. "What' do you mean, my darling?" He replied confused.  
"With out little girl, and the children! Something bad has happened, or going to happen - I can feel it!"_

_Other husband's might have shrugged such a vague feeling off, but Gomez believed his wife absolutely. He had complete, undoubting reverence for her impeccable instincts. He pulled her close, lost as to what he could do. They had done everything to try and get home. They couldn't call anyone, the telephone pole was burnt to a crisp and the heatwave was far from letting up. They had searched for a radio, someway to make Morse code - nothing. Even smoke signals would just be lost in the hopeless landscape of sporadic blazes. Gomez and Morticia more than revelled in pain and misery - but only controlled pain and misery. Any other time being trapped, helpless in death valley surrounded by the constant threat of spontaneous combustion would be an incredible aphrodisiac but in the circumstances nothing could be worse._

* * *

Marty was right that Gomez had stashed more in the mattress, what he didn't expect was that instead of notes, the strange millionaire had filled his mattress with bullion for extra lumpy, solid comfort. Each bar that Wednesday begrudgingly passed up weighed about thirty pounds, but more than worth the workout if he could get them into the car. He stopped, admiring a huge, perfect ingot in his hand. They must have been worth a quarter of a million dollars each. One was enough to buy him and Claude a house each on a Bahamas beach and get them away from a life of crime forevermore, but Marty's fatal flaw was that he couldn't resist taking more than he needed. Twenty eight of these bars seemed like the weight limit for the impala.

"That's enough! Get up and help me get these down to the car!" He flicked the gun and Wednesday resentfully rose to her feet, brushing her dress down and easily lifting three of the ingots in her arms. Marty grinned, amused by the slip of a girl's freakish strength and ordered her onwards down the steps.

As she looked towards the hallway, she could hear the twins starting to stir, building into a cry that cut through the rumble of the thunder. She felt a wash of urgency. She had to do something, something risky but necessary. Uncle Fester had schooled her on the art of playing dumb and striking while the guard was down. In a moment she had concocted an outrageously dangerous plan. She took a breath as she lugged the ingot in her grasp.

She turned to Claude. "How am I supposed to carry all of these!" She feigned weakness, bumbling them in her arms, wobbling towards him, gesturing for him to take one.  
"Well why'd you take so ma-"

He was interrupted by the sudden, shooting, horrific pain of thirty pounds of gold dropping onto his foot. His ears rung as he buckled forward and before he knew where he was, the teenager had kneed him in the gut, her hands grabbed the gun and he fired.


	8. Chapter 8

In the tussle for the gun, a shot had been fired into a nearby taxidermy vulture, puffing a flurry of feathers in the air. It narrowly missed the burglar but whipped the twins up into hysterical squealing cries. Wednesday lifted her glance for a moment, looking out the bay window as the neighbouring house's light switch on. Mrs. Thompson must have heard the shot. Marty doubled over and gasped winded and grimaced as he felt the cold barrel of the gun pressed to his temple. Wednesday could hardly believe herself, but protective instinct was very much at the helm. He looked up in disbelief at the teenager, her face was as blank as ever as she stared him down, coldly holding the offending weapon.

"If you had just asked for money, I'd have given you it. But you've upset the children, and I can't forgive you for that." Her voice was monotonous and ominous but oddly polite, it made the cutthroat criminal shiver. She grabbed Marty by his collar, pulling him from the floor and marching him down the stairs.

"Shoot me then." He spat through a bitter laugh. Being shot would put him out of the shame of being overpowered by a kid.  
"That's a very good idea." She continued to shove him down the stairs, holding onto the scruff of his jacket She stopped on the half landing at a half-height broom closet. "Perhaps later. Get in."

She pushed him in with less than a little effort and slammed the door, jamming the metal handle with a near by besom broom. Marty immediately began to rattle violently at the feeble looking door, but it was far stronger than it looked, much like the little teenager who bolted away leaving the burglar trapped and humiliated. Wednesday had no intention of ever shooting anyone if she could help it, but it was a good idea to keep the thug on edge. She swiftly turned and thundered downstairs to the two poor little girls who wailed in a heart-breaking duet. Wednesday scooped them up with a flurry of gentle kisses and they quickly lulled down from their panic. She placed them back down as they cuddled together drifting back off to sleep. She promised her return with a kiss on their tiny hands and ran through the halls in desperate search for little Cain.

She meandered through corridors and passageways, crawlspaces and ladders. She checked all of Cain's usual haunts. The playroom, the kitchen, the boiler-room, the attic. If only Pugsley's tunnels hadn't been filled in he might have found his way back to the safety of his own house. She tried the aviary, the parlour, the pantry, the wine cellar and still no luck.

"Hey, Marty!" Suddenly came Claude's rough voice and Wednesday silently backed against the cold basement wall. She wasn't prepared for any Mexican standoff. She hadn't had one of those since elementary school and that was with slingshots and pinecones. In truth she had little idea how to use a real revolver, and she wasn't keen to learn. Uncle Fester's big clumsy blunderbuss was excellent for the thrill of a fright and the odd shoot-in-the-back threat but unfortunately Fester had a habit of changing his hiding place for it. He would often stash it up chimneys but he had stopped that since Pugsley's octopus, Aristotle, got a hold of it. All she could do was hope she's stumble across it eventually and try to avoid confrontation until then.

"Pst, Marty! Look I lost the baby, alright? Somethin' off about that kid anyhow, he got the bite of a mountain lion. Let's just get out of here Mart! This is too much!" She could hear him cautiously sneaking past in the adjacent corridor. If she let him roam around he'd eventually find Marty and let him loose. Then she'd really have problems. She wasn't remotely happy with Thing. He was meant to be keeping a lookout, he could have at least tied their shoe laces together or something. She had offended him earlier by laughing at him when he lost rock, paper, scissors to Cain and he had been in dramatic hiding since. Thing was very head-strong for someone who was just a hand.

She waited for Marty to creep by before tapping a delicate morse message with her sharp painted nail on the cold concrete wall.

_W h e r e a r e y o u ?_

She waited a moment. Before a familiar tap came back from no where in particular. A pang of indignancy still ringing in its rhythm.

E v e r y w h e r e .

The answer tapped back from around her, it was obvious Thing was still deep in his huff. She rolled her eyes.

O h y o u k n o w w h a t I m e a n ! W h e r e ' s C a i n ?

W i t h t h e c a t . A s l e e p .

D o s o m e t h i n g t o s t o p t h a t c r o o k f r o m g e t t i n g a n y f u r t h e r w i l l y o u ?

I t o o k h i s g u n .

H e ' s s t i l l d a n g e r o u s . W a t c h t h e g i r l s .

She sprang up and took off running in the direction of the playroom, luckily it was the opposite direction of the route Claude was taking.

Eventually she reached the playroom and desperately prodded at the wall until it opened on kitty's den. Inside the dark vault was the family's huge cowardly cat, curled up protectively around the little boy, purring contently. Wednesday sighed relieved that Cain was safe. She was even more relieved to see that he felt so safe that he'd fallen fast asleep. She gently stroked the sleeping lion's muzzle and Kitty opened a sparkling amber eye before licking Wednesday's hand like a Labrador. Cain stirred and murmured as Wednesday tucked Kitty's lambs wool throw around him.

"Stay here." She whispered gently, he didn't have much trouble with that instruction as he nodded back into sleep. It was probably much riskier to try and smuggle him to the Thompson's house with Claude still roaming around. Besides, she didn't have the heart to disturb him. He was secure and contented in his big furry bed. Kitty was generally a big wimp, but when it came to protecting the children he was a force to be reckoned with.

From the playroom she could clamber up the fireman's pole directly to the living room and wasted no time in doing so as she made her way back to the girls. The plan was to carry them over to the Thomson's and get the to call the police while she returned to hold the fort with Kitty and Cain. She scrambled up the pole with impressive agility and way back in the living room in a second. Luckily the girls weren't crying, unluckily, Mara was cradled in the arms of Claude. 


	9. Chapter 9

Wednesday stood frozen, the gun pointed with unintimidated intent.

"Put her down." She said coldly as Claude turned to face her, Mara in his arms. The baby didn't look scared or even discontented, but Claude certainly did. He cowered and edged away, holding Mara out in a way that gestured that he was surrendering her back to the basket.  
"Look kid, I- I don't mean any harm. I don't wanna hurt the baby, she was just crying -"  
"She was crying because two nasty bullying thugs broke into her house when her parents weren't home, woke her up and tried to use her as a hostage to get money. Now put her down."  
"No, listen, that's all Marty. I'd never scare a baby!" Claude sounded offended, as if he hadn't earned the assumption. "Anyway, where are her parents huh? They're just as bad as us! Leaving three rug rats with a puny little high schooler!"  
"You tell yourself that if it makes you feel any better." Wednesday snapped as Claude gently placed the little girl back next to her sister.  
"I ain't like Marty."  
"Well you follow him around so you might as well be. You're weak and people like Marty will use that."

Wednesday stepped towards him and he backed away, his palms held up in surrender. Suddenly Marty's furious voice rung through the halls as he shook the frail closet door and Claude visibly flinched realising his friend was nearby. She positioned herself between the twins and the robber and with her free hand reached for the candlestick telephone on the nearby side table.  
"It's all over anyway. I'm phoning the cops."  
"No you ain't. We cut the lines."

She ignored him and dialled 911, but when she lifted the receiver she heard nothing. Only the dead silence of severed lines. She knew it was only a matter of time before Marilyn tried to call again. She had to do something to fix the line and quickly. She dropped her stare from the burglar to look over the receiver for a pulled wire.

Suddenly Claude drew the gun he had tucked in his back pocket. His hand shook and his eyes wavered as he pointed it at the girl. He was no where near as cold as Marty, but his unsteady hand made him unpredictable. Thing said that he had stolen the gun and yet what Claude held in his hand was undeniably a pistol.

"D- drop the gun, kid." Claude's voice wavered. Wednesday only glared as she took a step towards him, determined to shield the twins but put distance between her and them. He panicked with a backwards jump and she realised his hand was fraught and it seemed like his index finger was beginning to squeeze the trigger.

She dropped the gun.

With a few frightened breaths Claude relaxed a little before kicking the gun away from her. It span across the hard wooden floor and slid under a heavy black lacquer sideboard. The sort of sideboard that only Lurch could move; there was no way she'd be able to get it back. They stood frozen in the thunder as Claude shakily lowered his pistol. Wednesday only stared.  
"This is your chance to leave." She said, careful not to betray any fear. Claude havered and faltered and stumbled for the words.  
"Can't leave Marty!" He finally managed.  
"He'd leave you."  
"How do you know?!"

Suddenly Marty furiously bellowed Claude's name and he jumped. The milder thug leapt into a façade of cruelty as he ordered her to sit on the floor with her hands on her head. She lowered herself to the ground with a resentful stare where she watched him as he edged back up the staircase towards the furious shouts. She could hear Claude find the closet and fight to un-catch the bracing broom. She was waiting for her moment to spring up, take the twins and run before Marty could get free. It was risky, and if they came after her she'd be putting the twins in a direct line of fire, but she had few other options. Ideally she wanted to trap both Claude and Marty before making an escape, then she'd know there's be less of a risk of them coming across Cain. As her hands met the floor, she caught something under the fringe of the nearby divan.

It was Uncle Fester's Blunderbuss.

She wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do but she took the huge antique gun and ran after Claude. From the bottom of the staircase she aimed up with all the conviction of a civil war general.

It was too late to stop Marty's escape. As soon as the closet door swung open, Marty snatched the gun out of Claude's hand and aimed it at the girl climbing the stairs. Wednesday froze.  
"Don't hurt her Mart she's only a kid!" Claude protested.  
"She's a brat and she's got a piece on her! You wanna get blown to bits by some pathetic little rich kid?" He pulled the trigger without a second thought and the furious bang echoed around the room.

When the smoke cleared, Marty stared in horror at the pathetic white flag poking out the barrel of his gun. Wednesday was wrong to doubt Thing, he _had_ taken the original pistol. If only he had explained that he had replaced it with something so similar things might have gone smoother. Marty panicked, pushing Claude asides and with the pull of the ancient trigger, the blunderbuss blast sent Marty barrelling over the railings onto the floor below. Claude, cowered under the great plume of blackened gunpowder. Mara and Isolde squealed and giggled, delighted at the comforting sound of the familiar blunderbuss.

It was obvious falling from a half landing had done something awful to Marty's ankle as he stumbled to his feet but that didn't stop him scooping the still-giggling Isolde out of her basket and holding her as if she were a shield.

"There's no way you can aim that scattergun at me and not hit the baby." Marty jeered. Wednesday stared as she lowered the blunderbuss. He was right, but if he was going to sink to taken hostages, so was she. She pointed the huge trumpet-barrelled gun at Claude who was sat cowering on the stairs in a crumpled heap.

Marty glared in shock, his face contorted into an irritated grimace and to Wednesday's horror, he turned and ran off into the dark corridor, still limping with defenceless little Isolde still in arms. 


	10. Chapter 10

"See?" Wednesday dropped the barrel from Claude's brow but hoisted him to his feet, twisting his wrist behind his back. "He's not your friend." She said curtly. "You're just another lock pick to him."

Claude couldn't answer, still reeling in the panic and confusion. Wondering how such a simple, apparently easy robbery had gone so incredibly wrong. He worried that it was his age catching up with him or maybe all teenagers were now being trained in martial arts nowadays. Something told him that this teenager was like no other. She wrangled him to the bureau where she hunted for a silk handkerchief, flicking it out, twisting it and tying Claude's hands behind his back. For good measure she tied his shoe laces together, with the knot far down enough to allow him to take careful steps, fashioning a crude ankle shackle. Him having been a prisoner for so long meant he was probably well practiced in chain gang stepping.

She toyed with the idea of trapping him in a cupboard, but that didn't work with Marty. Instead, she decided to lug him along with her. He was pretty defenceless sans the use of his hands and if he tried to run he'd surely fall. If she reached the iron maiden she'd lock him in; not that he deserved such luxury.

She crossed to the mosses basket and carefully lifted Mara, taking her delicate lace shawl with her and holding her on her hip. With her other arm she aimed the blunderbuss at Claude, marching him after Marty, into the dark corridor.

* * *

Wednesday, followed the likely trail of the burglar through the hallways, she had the advantage of being familiar enough with the house to retrace her steps and know which rooms she had already checked. She knew all the shortcuts, dumbwaiters and chutes and she knew which passageways might be the most obvious to a stranger. Unfortunately she couldn't imagine being lost in this lovely old house. With Mara, the blunderbuss and Claude in tow she wasn't at her quickest and over Mara's babbles she couldn't listen for poor little Isolde. Regardless she had an advantage that Marty couldn't even dream of; Thing.

The hand clattered out of a nearby painting, swinging the frame open like a door and nearly hitting Claude in the forehead causing him to shriek. He rapped at the hollow wall and pointed Wednesday in the right direction and she shuffled Claude ahead of her. Thing appeared again from an umbrella stand, gesturing her down a short flight of stairs that led to the back entrance of her mother' conservatory. She quickly realised Claude couldn't step down the stairs and she turned to Thing instructing him to keep an eye on Claude. She knew Thing was always limited by the reach of his arm, but he'd be able to trip Claude up should he need to. Marty was the one that really worried her anyway, and her main priority was getting him away from little Isolde. 

* * *

His injured ankle buckled painfully under him as he limped through the rooms of the house. Marty wasn't sure where he was running or really what he was looking for. His satchel, which had been stuffed full of fifty dollar notes had been left by the front door although whether it was still there or not was anyone's guess. If he found the satchel, he'd leave. He'd put the baby down on the nearest couch or bed and make a break for it, this house despite all its riches, wasn't worth it. Claude would catch up hopefully, but if not, the money would be some comfort to Marty in the absence of his friend. The only trouble was finding the way out. He wasn't having much luck in finding a vault or safe either as he stumbled into a strange, vast greenhouse.

Isolde babbled contented and squealed delighted at the plants, reaching out from Marty, grabbing leaves and chewing them, rumpling them in her little hands. Marty gently took the bizarre leaf from the baby's mouth, glad that there was no-one around to witness this oddly responsible action. He looked around, these were plants that he'd certainly never seen before. They were plants that he couldn't believe existed. Strange, yellow cacti and vines that wound themselves into braids. Prickly hedges bore odd black berries and oversized Venus flytraps mindlessly creaked their vicious jaws. Plants with long winding tendrils, like tree-bound octopi seemed to reach out for him. Huge conical flowers that stank of tinned beef, leaned in to greet him. A feeling of claustrophobia suddenly overcame him as he narrowly squeezed past a flurry of hemlock. 

He held the baby's hands away from the spines and thorns, as he looked back up from her, it was as if the leaves and plants had grown over his passageway in and he was suddenly completely surrounded by monstrous foliage.

* * *

Claude was wondering the dark underpasses of the creaking old mansion, his ankles still tied, he was exhausted from trying to break the knot that trapped his hands behind his back. His injured arm, bitten by Cain, cramped as his elbow locked up in the awkward, arrested position. Taking candy from a baby had proven harder than it looked. He shuffled carefully, knowing that if he tripped he'd fall flat on his face. He tried to shoulder each door he came to, desperate to find the way out. He didn't care about gold or cash anymore, If he saw a police car he'd gladly flag it down and confess everything if it meant he could get away from this hellish house. Prison wasn't nearly as difficult as being out in the real world, he resented that he was ever released. There was something liberating about not needing to make, use or remotely worry about money in prison. He missed his uncomplicated three square meals, even if they were slop. 

He shuffled through the corridors, each passageway seemed darker than the last. Weak, fizzing incandescent lightbulbs were only good for casting, long strange shadows in the orange light. The sheet lightning occasionally light up his was through the porthole windows but this did nothing to coordinate him. The bulbs flashed and flickered and buzzed, the floorboards creaked and the draught cut through him with a brittle howl.

He listened for any sound of Marty but to his horror all he could hear beyond the thunder, was a haunting otherworldly giggle. He felt watched. Mocked from behind a thin veil. It would be a surprise if this house _wasn't_ haunted, he thought. He turned, trying to follow the sound of the laugh but the sound erupted from the other corner of the room, this time closer.

Claude turned again, and tried to back away. He shouted for the voice to show itself, desperate not to show his rising fear. The thunder rumbled through the room and a nearby candle clattered to the floor. Suddenly, the bulbs spat out into darkness with a pop and a flash. He caught his heel on a warped floorboard and he stumbled back, landing on the cold floor in a heap.

The room span. It all seemed darker than ever as he struggled to sit back up with his hands still tied. As the room slowed from whirling and his eyes focused in the dark, he could make out a pale little figure. Stood besides him was Cain.

He didn't looked scared or angry like he did earlier, instead he giggled and grinned. He looked like something out of an evil rice krispies commercial as he pointed delighted at Claude's predicament, obviously finding him being so tied up hilarious.

"That what you get!" He jeered through his little giggle, hopping on the spot in his bare feet and stripy pyjamas. 

"What did I ever do to you?" Claude gasped. "All I did was give you a candy and you bit me!"

"You wanna _poison_ me!" Cain stomped his foot and pointed as if to teach the burglar a lesson. Claude stared in disbelief.

"Jolly rancher's ain't poison! Kids are meant to like candy!"

Cain folded his arms, staring. Relatively small as the boy still was, the way he loomed over Claude was uncanny. He was his father's son alright.  
"Mama said candy bad for you."

"That don't mean it's poison! What do you eat if you don't eat candy? Chocolate?"

Cain thought. "Daddy give me cod liver oil when I'm good." He grinned at the thought, he routine of sitting on his father's knee and being awarded a proud, validating ruffle of his hair and a capsule of bitter fish oil was what his little life revolved around.

"That'll explain my you're so freakishly strong." Claude took a breath, still awkwardly trying to pull himself to his knees. "Look kid, I didn't mean to scare you. I just want out of here. How about you show me the way out and I won't come back again."

"No." The toddler said plainly, shaking his little head. "You a bad man. You wait for my daddy. He'll get you."

"What, I need to wait right here? That's not very nice, making a poor old man sit on the cold floor all night! What if I catch a cold?" Cain seemed to consider. It was true that his mother and god-mother alike had always taught him to be kind, gentle and friendly. His mother would never dream of leaving a person, however bad they were, sitting on a cold floor. It was bad manners, something his beloved mama would never stand for. He'd surely risk losing his cod liver oil reward if he was rude. 

"Follow me." Cain said monotonously, and suddenly turned leading Claude in the direction of the living room. Claude summoned up the last of his strength, throwing himself up, wobbling on his shackled feet and began quickly shuffling before he lost sight of the strange little boy.


	11. Chapter 11

Marty shrugged away from the touch of the leaves as they bowed in like ribs over him. Isolde squealed in delight and Marty cursed in horror. He felt a thread loop around his wrist, then another around his ankle. As he looked down to kick it away, to his disbelief he was being restrained by a brown, leafy snake. He stomped and flapped and panicked, Isolde only giggled more. It was hopeless, as soon as he fought off one vine, another had caught him. A root looped around his injured leg and tripped him, causing him to stumble backwards into a leafy body that moved and stirred as if it were alive.

Despite his inherent cruelty and disregard for the lives of anyone capable of threatening his; he didn't actually wish any harm on the baby. Using her as a shield or a chip to blackmail with was all a bluff. He held her, terrified to drop her and found himself in a tug-of-war of nightmares, when a vine wrapped around Isolde. He held on desperately, careful not to hurt her in the tussle, but petrified by the thought of her being pulled into the sentient shrub.

The burglar, kicked and elbowed and landed a blow that caused the bizarre plant to actually grunt. It only succeeded in making it angry. It made a freakish chirping, whooping and croaking noise and a thick, creeping branch of prickly leaves wrapped around him like a boa constrictor, squeezing him. The head of this horrifying weed circled to furiously face him, it's sharp petals snapping venomously, revealing wet pink gums and a snake-like throat. He stared into its jaws, convinced it was about to swallow him whole but instead it gave a disgusted 'blegh' and a hiss. The plant made quite clear that he was unworthy of being eaten.

He felt the giggling baby be gently lifted from his now-numb grasp. The vine held Isolde as gently as a nurse and fashioned itself into a cosy cradle, rocking her and letting her cuddle one of its thick branches like plush bear. She cooed and giggled contently, nestling in.

Marty was pulled away into the venery, through a hedge of thorns and out of sight of the baby. He was spat out on the outer edge of the conservatory, in some dark archway. He gasped and panicked. The terror of what he had just endured, the thought of the baby being left in the care of that monster plant. He shrieked as the pain of the tiny thorn pricks and cuts hit him. He rubbed his aching wrists, his ribs and ankles, feeling the tear in his clothes. He felt like he had just wrestled a lion.

That was it, he realised he couldn't cope with this anymore. Prison was a dawdle, this was beyond anything he could mentally process. What if he had just been the last person to see that baby? What if she was plant food? He gave a cry as he turned and ran as fast as his failing ankle would allow. Clattering up the nearby steps, lost in a trance of horror and desperation.

* * *

Wednesday ran as quickly as she could without upsetting Mara who happily sat in her arm, curled against her shoulder. She finally reached her mother's conservatory and ducked into the wall of brambles, frantically looking for the little girl. Checking each plant pot and stand. She brandished the blunderbuss in case she was faced with Marty.

To her relief the vines began to move aside clearing politely to reveal Cleopatra, lovingly embracing Isolde in a cosy spiralled, nest of leaves. The maternal plant chirped happily as if to baby talk. Leaning forward and tickling the little girl on the nose with her leaves, before ducking backwards before Isolde could catch her and blowing a raspberry to the baby's delight. Isolde rolled and bounced and laughed her pale little face pink, grappling at Cleopatra adoringly. Cleopatra cuddled in, caressing the infant with gentle leaves and singing an odd trilling lullaby.

"Oh Cleopatra!" Wednesday cried in relief at the plant and she chirruped her delight at the sight of her. She was surprised to see she had come out of hibernation so early; usually African stranglers didn't rebloom until early fall. Cleopatra had obviously been woken up by the presence of danger, her maternal instinct sensing the emergency. The teenager put down the blunderbuss and sat Mara next to her sister before slinging her arms around the sentient foliage. Cleopatra gurgled and nuzzled into Wednesday, as motherly to the older child as she was to the infants.

"Oh Cleopatra, I've messed up!" Cleopatra didn't agree, but patted her back with her vine.

"Poor little Cain! He was so frightened. Poor Lurch and Marilyn, when they find out all their worst fears have come true." The plant cooed as if to tell her not to fret, but Wednesday couldn't help but be rife with guilt and worry.

"Did you eat that burglar?" 

Cleopatra shook tersely and spat a "blech" in disgust. 

"Well I know rich meat gives you heartburn but it really would have helped!" Wednesday huffed and looked around for any sign of him.  
"Which way did he go?" 

A long tendril pointed in the way of the back corridor.

"He can't get away with this. Please, look after the girls!" Before the plant could pull her back she had picked up the blunderbuss and taken off at top speed. She hopped up the steps and rumbled through the corridors, skidding a little in her stocking feet.


	12. Chapter 12

Mr. Thompson had had enough of waiting. He pulled on his trench coat despite his wife trying to pry it back off.

"Dear, you mustn't go over there! You're not a young man! The police are coming just give them time!"  
He shook his head and patted his fretting wife's hand before looping his hearing aid over his ear and slotting the pack into his pyjama shirt pocket.  
"It's been a half hour and they're still not here. There's kids in that house I need to go over! You stay here and receive the police if they ever come."

He slipped on his rain boots and made out into the hail storm, stumbling towards the creaking old timber mansion.

The house was oddly still as he reached the cover of the porch. Mrs. Addams had left a spare key with him in case of emergencies, but just as he was about to turn the lock, the great oak door swung open on it's own accord as if the house itself was happy to see him. He shivered, stepping carefully into the great building. He tried to listen over the whistle of the storm for any noises of the children, fumbling with the dial of his hearing aid but it was hopeless. All he could make out was the clatter of the storm on the ancient shingles. From the foyer he could see the vast Livingroom was empty.

He crept forward, carefully avoiding the polar bear rug and shouted for Wednesday and Cain. Nothing was returned. He wondered further, turning, looking for anyone. To his horror, on the plush carpeted stairway was the unmistakable black powder of a gun shot, the smell of the burning gunpowder still lingered in the air. The old man stiffly crouched to feel the powder in his fingertips, as if it would lead him closer to the source. He found, at least, there was mercifully no trace of bloodshed. He rose again, creaking to his feet to investigate further. The mosses basket was sat empty on one of the settles, he reached in and clutched at the empty sheets as if the twins could be hiding in the folds and tried to dry swallow his building terror. Again there was no thankfully no sign of injury, but he wouldn't be calm until he had gotten all four children safely back to his house.

A trilling suddenly began to ring in his ears, he pulled the control for his hearing aid out of his pocket and tried to fiddle with the dial expecting it to just be a foible of his hearing aid, but the trilling only got louder. He realised that the noise was coming from somewhere within the house, somewhere beyond the doors that sat on the far wall of the great room. He took careful steps towards the doors, and opened them carefully inch by inch, peeking beyond into the humid conservatory.

He, walked into the canopy of strange leaves, being careful not to catch his sleeves on any thorns or bramble. He squinted in the half light and realised that the plants were making way for him. The curtain of foliage opening to reveal the two infant girls curled up together on a leafy nest like a pair of kittens. They were sleeping peacefully, sucking their little fingers as they dreamed. Not a hair on their head had been harmed.

Mr. Thompson was familiar with Cleopatra the African Strangler but he didn't know the plant could sing. Cleopatra continued her loving lullaby until she caught sight of the neighbour and she whooped in gesture to the children. Mr. Thompson wasted no time, he lifted both girls out of Cleopatra's care and into his arms. Thanking the plant to his own confusion. Turning quickly he rushed back to the Livingroom and placed the still sleeping twins back into their mosses basket, tucking their blankets around them and stroking their cheeks with a grandfatherly "there, there."

He planned to leave immediately, taking the babies to the safety of his house before returning for the older two. He was stopped however by a strange rumbling sound that begun somewhere high in the building. It sounded pipe-like, metallic and structural, he feared for a moment that the house was falling down. The rumbling trundled closer, getting louder until he pinned it to the slide tucked in the far corner of the room. He jumped as the noise came to a clattering crescendo and a full grown man came tumbling out of the bottom of the chute, his wrists tied, his shoelaces knotted together. He looked battered and harassed and shrieked as he stumbled on his knees, reeling in the dizziness and collapsing in a heap.

Mr Thompson backed away, the shock rendered him speechless. The house was bizarre, he knew that but the fact that it had chewed up and spat out this monster of a criminal was truly amazing. He looked at the victim for a moment, staring at his cauliflower ear, his fighting scars and botched prison tattoos, his dense, leathery knuckles and squashed flat nose. He was the sort of mean ogre anyone would cross the street to avoid. The burglar suddenly turned and cowered, his eyes fixed on something just behind Mr. Thompson.

Suddenly something cold touched the old man's hand.

"Cain!" The old neighbour exclaimed, half in genuine fright and half in relief.  
Cain shook the old man's arm fondly. "E's a bad man!" The toddler jabbed at Claude and Mr. Thomson pulled Cain behind him protectively.

"You're right about that, sonny! But don't worry he'll be going to prison for a very long time!"

"No! Daddy get him!"

"Oh that's right! You better hope his father doesn't get a hold of you pal!" Mr. Thompson spat at Claude, who just curled tighter in a pathetic huddle on the floor.

"Look I never wanted any trouble..."

"Yeah well go got it! You tried to pick on four defenceless kids!"

"Defenceless? Are you kidding?! You call that defenceless? Do you know what that little monster did to me? Look at my arm!"

Claude's shirt sleeve had now dried faded brown, he looked like he had been mauled by a terrier. Cain beamed and looked up baring Mr. Thompson his shiny little teeth and earning a pat on the head from the old man.  
"Atta boy. And he's only three, think what his seven foot father will do to you! God help you is all I can say. You better hope the cops get here before he does! Now tell me where the older girl is!"

"Gee I don't know! Kicking Marty about somewhere probably."

"Who the hell is Marty?!"

"The guy who thought all this up! I didn't wanna do any of this!"

Mr. Thompson scoffed as he gently nudged Cain towards the door, the toddler understood the instruction. Thing emerged from the umbrella stand to offer the boy his anorak and a pair of rubber boots. Cain, pulled the coat on with little hurry and took a moment to carefully select which foot to put in which shoe. 

  
"You're a grown man, you chose to go along with him." The old neighbour looked the burglar up and down. It was obvious he was battered, bruised and exhausted, but regardless he was a violent, brutish thug and all that was really holding him was a flimsy silk scarf around the wrists. As Claude scrambled and shuffled onto his knees, he managed to shake off a shoe, releasing his ankles.

The old man quickly lunged and kicked Claude's shin out from under him, sending him crashing back to the floor. Cain hopped and giggled devilishly as he watched from raised vantage of the foyer. He grabbed Claude by the shoulders pulling him up and gripping the scruff of his neck. He didn't have a concrete plan of where to put him, he just wanted his as far away from the children as possible. If he was a younger man he'd probably lock him in the family's tomb-like ottoman, but all he could manage at his age was to shove him through the doors into the conservatory.

To Mr. Thompsons shock, the doors clattered shut on their own accord and Claude had been pulled into a flurry of furious leaves behind the glass. Mr. Thompson could hardly bare to look. He turned and grabbed the mosses basket, cautiously hurrying towards the door that Cain politely held open. The old man safely ferried the three children across the threshold, just in time to meet the lights of the wailing police car stopping alongside the sidewalk.


	13. Chapter 13

Wednesday stalked through the corridors, listening intently for Marty's stumbling steps over the sound of the rain. She held the blunderbuss prone and her delicate hand on the trigger, she butted each door open with the barrel and crept in perfect silence in her wool stocking feet. Her heart was thumping in her ribs, the thought of actually having to shoot this man, however terrible he was was terrifying her though she'd never admit it. Uncle Fester often blustered that he would shoot people in the back if anyone crossed him, but he'd never actually do it. He had claimed to have won duels and settle feuds and defended regiments but it was all mostly hot air, he really didn't have a truly violent bone in his body, no one really did in the family.

Her father had taught her about healthy aggression, that you mustn't pretend that your human anger doesn't exist or it'll only boil over. That you should control your brutal humanity in healthy pursuits such as fencing, ju-jitsu, crocodile wrestling and sword swallowing. Wednesday struggled with this as a child, occasionally socking the odd classmate in the eye, but she had grown into her father's daughter, becoming a happy, good-natured and resilient near-young adult.

There was one occasion though, something she had only half heard about. It was an incident where Wednesday's mother and Aunt Ophelia as children had been picked out by some neighbouring teenagers. Uncle Fester had apparently live wired the park fence the offenders often climbed as a shortcut, putting three of them in the back of an ambulance, two of which were told they'd remain highly static for the rest of their lives.

There was a line you did not cross with the Frumps, the Lurch's and the Addams. Anyone may feel free to insult the adults, steal from the family's houses, graffiti the property, trespass, try to demolish the homes, financially undermine Gomez's businesses, slap them, kick them, drain the family's swamp. It's all in good fun, no harm no foul.

But if anyone dare cross the children of these families; god help them.

God help Marty who scrambled in terror through the labyrinthian corridors, he clattered and fumbled, angrily kicking over ottoman's and plant pots that stood in his way. He battered open doors and ripped swags and curtains off their rails in the furious pursuit of escape.

Enraged, humiliated and horrified by the things he had encountered in the house he was in the throws of a 'kill or be killed' mania and when he came face to face with the teenager who had catalysed his decent he wasn't sure what he'd do. The girl looked just as shocked, visibly jumping when he emerged from behind the partition swag with a yank of the fabric, she glared as she held the blunderbuss prone, he saw how she shook.

The dust of the ancient attic in the lulling storm swam around them, the echo of the distancing thunder clattered in time with their panicked heartbeats. A sheet of lightning lit up the room and Wednesday could see the white's in Marty's eyes, the room plunged into black and she felt the gun be yanked from her frightened hands.

She was an Addams after all, she had the Addams curse of kindness, gentleness, she had the Frump's curse of dignity and valour, with just a hint of pusillanimity. She could threaten, chase and intimidate all she liked, she was still a sweet and noble Addams, a Frump with righteousness and decorum to a fault.

She was no killer, despite the threat. In the dim room she was a vulnerable but dignified girl standing with black eyes staring at this monstrous being. She didn't dare let her lip tremble, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of raising her palms to plead. She took a last breath of stale air as he lined his shot and pulled the trigger.

She thought for a moment, that the afterlife was nothing but soot.

The gun had gone off, their coughing and spluttering made that clear. She could taste sulphur and charcoal, she could hear ringing in her ears.

The gun wasn't loaded, just full of volatile, noisy blanks perfect for scaring off bluebirds and finches. Of course her Uncle Fester would never really load a gun. Her mother despised violence, she would never tolerate a truly dangerous weapon under her roof. Marty didn't know this though as he made the mistake of grabbing the metal barrel to look for the problem and burnt his hand on the ancient artefact. He hissed and fumbled and looked up to the girl, his eyes darting and twitching with anger and horror.

He shrieked and fell back to the floor with a clatter when he saw something beyond his worst nightmares glaring at him from behind her shoulders, emerging from the smoke like death itself ready to drag him to hell for a life truly misspent. 


End file.
